


A Paintbrush With Death

by spidermanhomecomeme



Series: Kicking Buckets [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: 1k to be exact, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Artist Michelle Jones, Canon Compliant, Crime Scenes, Dark Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Forensic Fairytale, He comes back, Let's solve a mystery gang, Lovers to lovers, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker Dies, Peter's dead, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Powered Michelle Jones, but don't worry, but like only for a lil bit, peter and mj are the social distancing king and queen, technically MCD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: Michelle possesses a unique talent—she can bring the dead back to life with a single touch.But only for a minute. Any longer, and someone else has to die. Another touch and they're dead again. Forever.After stumbling upon this gift in her childhood, Michelle swears to never use it.Until one day, when her high school sweetheart Peter Parker is murdered.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: Kicking Buckets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949977
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	A Paintbrush With Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! Happy October!! 
> 
> This has been in the works for a long time and I am SO excited to finally share it with you! I love Pushing Daisies SO MUCH and have always wanted a Spideychelle AU of it!! As you can see with the tags, there is a major character death, but it's very brief, and resolved VERY quickly. I'll give you a hint at who it is. (his name rhymes with "eat her" OOP)
> 
> This is the first "Episode" of the series. Each Episode will have 2 or 3 parts!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

At this very moment in the borough of Queens, young Michelle was ten years, twenty-seven weeks, five days, eight hours, and six minutes old. 

Michelle was a smart girl. Often the top of her class, she excelled throughout her primary and elementary schooling, though she did so quietly, preferring to keep to herself. Her days were spent watching and observing her classmates, acting as the invisible background character in their daily lives, listening to their secrets that she had no reason to tell. It wasn’t a lonely life, by any means. No, Michelle found great company in her books and stories, in the doodles and scribbles that littered the pages of her class notebooks. 

However, while she was a bright and talented student, her greatest, most peculiar gift that she had yet to discover lay in a different direction.

It was also at this very moment, that her friend—a stray cat she’d nicknamed  _ Toulouse _ that followed her to and from school every day—was two years, sixteen weeks, three days, two hours, and eleven minutes old. 

And not a minute older. 

It had been an ordinary afternoon; every day after the three o’clock bell, Toulouse would wait for her at the crosswalk outside Dunbar Elementary School, swishing his tail and meowing as she approached. Some days, she would carry him, snuggling into his soft fur whether he wanted her to or not, and others, he would walk at her feet, weaving in and out between her legs. 

Today, however, as they crossed the final street to her house on the corner, as he followed her onto the asphalt, young Toulouse was struck by an oncoming van. 

Michelle, overcome with shock and grief, ran to the poor cat, slowing as she reached him. She lowered herself to her knees, a shaky hand reaching out to feel the soft fur of his lifeless body. But at the touch, there was a spark from the tip of her finger, covering the tabby in a warm, golden light. In the next instant, Toulouse leapt into the air, filled with life once again, yowling crankily as he ran the rest of the way across the street. 

It was in this moment—sat in the middle of the road, watching as her friend the stray cat, whose death she had just witnessed within the past thirty seconds, waited patiently on the front steps of her house—that she realized she wasn’t like the other children, nor was she like anyone else for that matter. 

Young Michelle could touch dead things and bring them back to life. 

This touch was a gift given to her, but not by anyone in particular. No box, no instructions, no manufacturer’s manual. The terms of use weren’t immediately clear. 

That is, until the next day. 

Tired of her daughter spending her Saturday afternoons locked in her room with her books, going off on her own adventures with characters she would never meet to places she would never go, Michelle’s mother would encourage her to visit their neighbor, an eldery woman by the name of Agnes Lilliput—who at this moment was seventy-nine years, three months, eleven days, twenty-one hours, and two minutes old—in the hopes that Michelle could help the old woman. 

Little did she know how  _ very little _ Michelle ended up doing. 

Agnes Lilliput did not want company, nor did she want any help; she was always one who cherished her independence—no matter how little she had. The wrinkles on her face and the beady look in her eyes suggested a life lived too long. Having never married, never bore any children, she had very little patience for anyone other than her two cockatoos, Ruth and Esther.

So in Michelle’s visits, the two would sit in silence, the only sounds between them being the turning of pages from one of Michelle’s many books and Agnes’s occasional hacking cough as she watched the morning news. Her house always smelled of old potpourri and bird seed .  Her pockets were always filled with butterscotch candies for her low blood sugar, but there would be the rare occasion where she would offer one to her guest. 

Michelle was more than happy to just sit with the woman, finding her cold, cronish nature to be as entertaining as one of the characters in her books. She was the old grumpy grandparent young Michelle had always wanted. 

It had been just like any other visit, until a blood vessel in the old woman’s brain burst, killing her instantly. 

Michelle stared; shunned, shocked, disturbed; holding her breath as she watched for Agnes’s chest to rise and fall. 

It did not.

She slowly, cautiously approached the body of the old woman, reaching her hand on to grab the lifeless wrist in the hopes of searching for a pulse. 

And again, just as it had happened with Toulouse, a spark shot from Michelle’s finger, covering Agnes in a golden glow. The old woman gasped, shaking her head as she pulled herself to sit upright. 

“Did I fall asleep?” She asked, her tone laced with annoyance. 

But Michelle could not speak, doomed to stare at the alive-again old woman. A single nod was all she could give as Agnes clicked off the television and rose from the old recliner, as if nothing had ever happened. 

At first, Michelle had only thought this gift was only for a single-time use; with her cat, Toulouse. Being able to use it again had never crossed her mind. But clearly, as she watched the old woman move about the room, she had never been more wrong in her short life. 

There was a sharp knock at the door.  _ A shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. _ A delivery! The antique cheese knife set that Agnes had been expecting for some time now. 

“It’s about damn time, “ the old crone grumbled. “Get that for me, would you?” 

Still unable to look away from the woman who was dead less than a minute before, Michelle nodded once more, willing to take any chance to leave the room. The old wooden door groaned as she opened it, a young, handsome delivery man on the other side, the neat package tucked under his arm, a clipboard in the other. 

He smiled at the girl, asking her if an Agnes Lilliput was available to sign. Michelle swallowed, calling the old woman over her shoulder. 

And it was then, as Agnes wobbled into the entryway, that Michelle learned that the gift that was came with a caveat or two. It was a gift that not only gave…

It took.

Young Michelle discovered she could only bring the dead back to life for one minute without consequence. Any longer and  _ someone else _ had to die. 

And she learned this when the poor, young delivery man dropped dead before he could offer the clipboard to Agnes. Michelle realized somehow in the grand universal scheme of things, that she had traded Agnes’s life for the delivery man’s. 

And she was horrified. 

But there was one more thing about touching dead things that Young Michelle didn’t know. And she learned it in the most unfortunate way.

Michelle and Agnes watched from the window as the ambulance wheeled away the poor delivery man’s body, the old woman reaching out for the first time ever to comfort the young girl. But as soon as her hand touched Michelle’s arm, Agnes was covered in a blue glow, the same spark from before lighting from Michelle’s skin. 

And once again, Agnes was dead. 

Michelle reached out, hand trembling as she tried to bring the old woman back, poking her cheek. Waiting. 

But there was no golden spark from her finger. Agnes was good and truly gone. 

First touch, life. 

Second touch, dead again forever. 

The effect of Agnes’s death on Michelle’s psyche was three-fold. From that day on, Michelle swore to never use her gift again, too afraid of what she might do if someone else died. The knowledge of her power never left, always lingering in the back of her mind. She became obsessed with true crime. Thirdly, she threw herself even more into her books and art, avoiding all social attachments.

That is, until she fell in love. 

At this very moment in the art classroom of the Midtown School of Science and Technology, Michelle was fifteen years, three months, two weeks, three days, five hours, and two minutes old. 

And his name was Peter. At this very moment he was fifteen years, one month, two weeks, three days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes old, laughing at the monstrous creation his friend Ned had put together with their shared lump of clay. Peter’s face seemed to be entirely made of smiles and sunshine, the corners of his eyes crinkling with each beaming grin. He was always kind, though his expression always held a tint of mischief when he joked with his friends.

Friends being Ned and occasionally members of the Decathlon team.

Michelle  did not think of him as being born or hatched or conceived in any way. Peter came ready made from the Play-Doh Fun Factory of Life.

She found herself compelled to watch him from afar, observing as he struggled to hide his new alter ego as a masked, crime-fighting vigilante named Spider-Man from his peers and teachers. She watched as he quit marching band, then robotics lab, flinging himself fully into his new afterschool activity. 

Although she was alarmed by this intense need to observe him, this crush felt safe. Never once did he seem to show interest in her in that way, never once did she get the inclination that he returned her feelings. His heart was already taken by one Liz Allan-Toomes. 

If Peter was already preoccupied, there was no danger in social attachments. 

But then, something changed after Homecoming of that year, after Peter left Liz at the dance to put her father—the vulture who had been picking up the scraps from super hero battles and creating dangerous weapons to distribute to criminals of all shapes and sizes—in prison. 

Liz moved away, and slowly, inch by inch, the boy who Michelle could not reach became just within her grasp. 

It was after the blip that Peter and Ned became friends with Michelle, students who had vanished at the same time having banded together for support. She noticed Peter’s lingering stares, his breathless, rambling voice as he spoke to her, but in her mind, she thought of it as his perpetual fear of accidentally giving away his secret identity. 

But she was proved utterly and completely wrong when the sweaty guy in the vault gave her the shattered Black Dahlia necklace. Dizzy with the adrenaline of a near-death experience and hormones, she ran to the Tower Bridge.

And on that bridge, the girl named Michelle and the boy named Peter shared their first kiss. 

However, the bliss of holding his hand in the airport would only last so long. 

It was barely a week spent together, a week of shy kisses and warm embraces, and her boyfriend was framed for murder, forcing him into hiding. There were tears as they parted, apologies and promises of a reunion chanted over and over into her hair. 

That was the last time she’d seen him. 

Spider-Man was exiled for years after, wanted for a crime he didn’t commit. He was chased from state to state, country to country, hunted by a man named Sergei Kravinoff, joined by others in a group they called the Sinister Six. He was doomed for a life on the run. Until the day came four years later, where Michelle watched him defeat Kraven the Hunter and his friends on the news, the day his innocence was proved by a former friend of Mysterio’s. 

That reunion never came. 

It’s now been eleven years, five months, three weeks, nine days, one hour, and fifty-nine minutes after watching Peter play with Play-Doh in art class, young Michelle has become  _ the Artist _ , owner of and teacher at  _ Wherefore Art Thou? _ , the art studio she’d always dreamed of having, ever since she was a little girl. When she’s not in a class or helping customers, she paints alone in her apartment above the shop, whistling quietly to herself, rarely pursing her lips tight enough to make a sound. 

Toulouse, of course, always hears her, jumping from his spot on the chair next to her and slinking away with a flick of his tail. 

Yes, Toulouse—the very same cat that she brought back from the grave; physically young as ever, mentally a grandfather. After all of these years, her friend the stray cat had faithfully stuck by her side—though not literally. Somehow Toulouse always knows to keep his distance just as Michelle knows to keep hers. As much as Michelle would like to hold her cat, to give him all the chin scratches that he deserves, she can’t. 

She settles for the occasional socially-distanced pet with a paint brush. 

And just as with every Wednesday after work, after a full day of business, her other best friend would come over, a box of pizza in hand. 

Ned Leeds, the other best friend and Assistant Forensic Scientist, was the sole keeper of Michelle’s secret. 

It had happened in the short week of her relationship with Peter. Ned, wanting to get to know Michelle even more given her recent entry into the  _ Friends of Spider-Man _ , had convinced her to walk with him to school, when he’d seen her accidentally revive a man running away with a woman’s purse after he’d fallen victim to a particularly nasty fall, only for Michelle to touch him again. 

It had taken hours for Michelle to secure Ned’s silence. 

This was not a power she thought the world needed to know about. While there were other enhanced individuals, none could play so directly with life and death themselves. 

“How do you and zombie cat live together?” Ned asked after taking a bite of pizza. 

“I told you,” Michelle replied, looking over to her friend the cat, cleaning his paws on the yellow living chair. “He has his side of the apartment. I have mine. And I already told you once, stop calling him a zombie. It’s disrespectful.”

“I mean, he was dead. And now he’s not. He came back to life,” Ned reasoned with a tilt of his head. “Zombie.”

“But he’s not stumbling around looking for brains. That’s not what they do.” 

“I don’t know, Toulouse is always looking at me funny…” Ned added with a joking scoff. 

A smirk tugged at Michelle’s mouth. “Well, he might eat yours. I dunno. But seriously. He’s not a zombie.”

“Undead? Living dead?” 

Michelle shakes her head. “No. You’re either living or you’re dead. When you’re living, you’re alive. When you’re dead, that’s what you are. And when you’re dead and then you’re not, you’re…” She pauses, chewing thoughtfully. “Alive again.”

“Well, speaking of alive again…” Ned said as he put his plate down. 

Michelle eyed him carefully, not fond of where this was going. 

“I’ve got an opportunity for you and your… gift… thing.”

“I already told you, dude. No. I’m never using it again.” 

“I’m just saying…” His mouth twitched into a nonchalant frown as his shoulders touched his ears. “Murders are a lot easier to solve when you can ask the victim who killed them…”

“Ned.” 

“It’s about this guy—” Ned paused, faltering at the way Michelle’s face had twisted in disgust. “—Dude had like four wives.”

“Well…” Michelle tipped her head, her eyebrows quirking upward, her lips pursed into a frown. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got your answer right there.”

“See, that’s the thing!” Ned continued, seeming to think that Michelle’s response was an invitation to keep going. 

It was not. 

“We’re pretty sure one of the wives did it. We found traces of arsenic in his system and in the coffee that was left at the crime scene—” Her friend’s smile only grew, a strange sight for someone talking about a murder, though she knew she couldn’t be one to judge. “—Get this. When we talked to the wives, they all said that they gave him his morning coffee. They all confessed.” 

“Well maybe they all did it. Besides, isn’t there some sort of law against you telling me any of this?” Michelle asked, a prickling annoyance climbing her spine. “And can’t you guys just… dust the coffee mug for prints?”

“We already did. Nothing.”

The Artist glared at her friend, but upon seeing his pleading face, her look softened. “Ned. I’m sorry. But I can’t, okay? I swore I’d never use my powers after that day—”

Ned looked pointedly at her.

“—Besides that  _ one time _ .” Michelle hurriedly continued before he could interject. “With the guy. And the purse. That was an accident.”

The seconds wore on as her friend stared silently, and she wondered if he’d even heard what she said. Though, before she could repeat herself, he nodded. 

“Yeah, okay. I get it. Sorry.” 

“You’re good.”

And he was  _ “good.” _ Michelle could tell that her friend’s words were genuine, and she found herself smiling as she punched him gently on the shoulder. Ned easily returned her expression, before a buzzing from his phone pulled his attention to his pocket. 

“Ah, I gotta go,” he said, already getting up from the couch. “It’s the AcaDec reunion tonight at Maxwell’s. You going?” 

“Ehh…” Michelle’s hesitation was not lost on Ned. 

“Mr. Harrington’s paying for drinks.”

“Harrington’s going?” She asked, jerking her head back in surprised confusion. “Why?”

Ned shrugged. “Dunno. Probably misses us, I guess. Don’t know how he got into our group chat though.” 

Michelle weighed her options. An evening spent with free drinks and a free show of Mr. Harrington doing whatever Harrington-esque thing he would do sounded like it was right up her alley. But she also had a painting to finish. “As much as I’d love to see drunk Harrington in action, I gotta—” She gestured to the unfinished work by her window. “You know. Do that.”

“Peter will be there.”

The Artist bristled at the name of the boy she once loved, the very sound causing her heart to flutter and fill with dread at the same time. And by Ned’s knowing smile, it was clear that the there had been no subtlety to his mention. 

“I uh—” Michelle scoffed, desperately clinging to her carefully crafted nonchalance. “So?” 

“I just feel like you guys have a lot of catching up to do.”

“We have no catching up to do.”

“You haven’t seen each other in eleven years.”

“So what’s one more day?” At Ned’s tired expression, she waved him off. “I’m sure we’ll get another chance tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. The point is, there’s plenty of time for us to catch up.” 

Little did she know how wrong she would be. 

And then came the event that changed everything. 

As Ned—hesitantly—left for the evening, and Michelle went back to her painting, not-whistling as her brush danced about the canvas, she found herself distracted by a pinging on her phone. Normally, she would ignore a notification from the local news, swiping it away without much thought, but it was the headline that drew her in and held her in a vice-like grip. The Artist read the article, unaware that she had stopped breathing. She was haunted by the name that appeared in large font at the top. 

_ New York’s Spider-Man, Peter Parker, Found Dead at 26.  _

“Pete?”

\--

The world mourned the loss of it’s Spider-Man. Banners were hung in his honor, a mass memorial service broadcasted on every television in every living room. Red and blue displays were put up in every store, no matter the merchandise. After only a few days of his discovery, it had been ruled that Peter’s death had to have been accidental, no signs of foul play, and no signs of a struggle. 

But nothing made sense. Something in Michelle’s gut told her that there was more to this than just a freak accident. 

The facts were these: 

Peter Parker, twenty-six years, twenty-four weeks, three days, eleven hours, and fifty-two minutes old, was found floating in a lake moments after his body was discarded there. 

Discarded by whom seemed to be something only Peter Parker could answer. 

The realization of what she had to do came with a sinking nausea in her gut, mingling with the already aching sense of grief for the loss of her high school sweetheart and friend. However, knowing what was to come, did not stop her tears as she read the news article over and over. 

Ned wept with her, even as she explained her plan to him. 

It would be a single touch, a few questions, and then another, final touch. 

And that would be it. 

They would get justice for their friend.

The private funeral came soon after, only Peter’s closest friends and loved ones receiving an invitation. Michelle was on both of those lists, as was Ned. This would prove to be the perfect—and only—opportunity they would get. There was no doubt in Michelle’s mind that what they were going to do was questionable at best; attending a service, disappearing to the room where the coffin waited as the loved ones cried in the parlor, bringing him back to life and killing him all over again. 

It made her stomach queasy and her throat constrict. 

And it was a far more informal affair than what she had imagined. The few guests—some Avengers, co-workers, Johnny, Cindy, Gwen, Miles, and others—were spread about the room, looking at pictures from Peter’s life; baby photos, school pictures, printed out selfies with his friends. It was sweet, enough to make Michelle’s chest ache with a certain longing, nearly shattering when her eyes landed on the ones she and Peter had taken together in their short time. There were recent ones, too. And in them, he still had the same cheery smile; the one that never failed to make her feel warm and fuzzy. 

“Doesn’t he look handsome there?” 

The voice of Aunt May startled her out of her memories. Michelle turned, smiling at her, feeling even more overwhelmed seeing the sadness in the older woman’s expression, thinly-veiled under a tired smile and watery eyes. 

Under normal circumstances, Michelle would joke about how much of a dork Peter looks in that particular photograph, with his silly science pun t-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

But these were not normal circumstances. 

“He does,” Michelle agreed. 

Without another word, Aunt May pulled the Artist into a crushing, yet comforting hug. “It’s so good to see you, MJ.”

“You—you, too,” Michelle replied, trying to swallow the lump ever growing in her throat. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

The sadness was still in May’s eyes as she pulled back, her mouth fighting valiantly to stay in a curved grin. “Me too, hun.”

They stood there, looking at the various pictures from Peter’s post-exile years scattered along the table together. 

Ned Leeds, having spent a few minutes investigating where exactly Peter would be in the building, returned soon after, wrapping May in a hug of his own. He offered his condolences with a wavering voice as he took one of her hands in his. 

Seeing May in such emotional disarray was proving to only make this whole process harder; almost enough to where Michelle wished they’d just forget the whole thing. But she knew that she couldn’t. Peter’s death was not an accident, and this was the only way to prove it. This was the only way to get the answers. 

It was when May was pulled to the side by Pepper Potts did Michelle get anything close to peace, and it still wasn’t enough. 

“Okay, so,” Ned started as soon as May was out of earshot. “Peter’s in a room down the hall. After the service, they’re gonna take him…” He stopped, wincing, struggling to find a delicate way to report his findings. “To the… burial… place. So we’ve got some time. It’s not much, but…”

Steeling herself, sucking in all of her emotion, Michelle nodded. “Got it. How do I get in there?” 

“Well, uh, luckily—or I guess, unluckily—the funeral director’s kind of a dick.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, there’s like this rumor going around that he steals jewelry and what not from coffins before they go off to be buried.”

Michelle’s jaw dropped in disgust. 

“—So I think we have some… leverage… if we wanted to… take a look…”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“All slow and weird.”

“I’m just… making sure… you get me…”

Michelle stared at him, quirking a brow in mild annoyance. “Let’s go.”

It didn’t take long to find the horrible funeral director. How it was only possible to get this man in this part of Queens, Michelle would never know. There was a golden glint in his eye, a counterfeit smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was tall and lanky, standing on the outskirts of the visitation like a scavenger waiting to for his chance to swoop in and take what was left. At the sight of Michelle approaching, his grin turned predatory, his bony hands wringing together in anticipation. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” His slimy wink sent a chill up her spine. “What can I do for you?”

Though she could feel both the heebies and the jeebies radiating off of this man like a potent smell, the Artist stood her ground. “That’s a nice watch you got there.”

“Oh, this?” the funeral director gleamed. “Twenty-four karats—”

“—Looks a lot like the one Mr. Zelinsky wore all the time. Doesn’t it?” She turned to Ned, pointing at the watch with feigned innocence. 

Ned nodded despite being thoroughly confused. 

The funeral director’s eyes blew wide, his body stiffening at her tone. It didn’t take much more convincing for him to take them to Peter’s room, unlocking the door for them through clenched teeth. 

“How did you know about Mr. Zelinsky?” Ned asked as they stood outside the door, Michelle gripping the doorknob, unable to get herself to turn it just yet. 

“I didn’t,” Michelle said under her breath. “I read the obituaries from here.” 

“Oh,” Ned nodded in understanding, smiling at the clever idea. Though his expression fell as quickly as it had appeared. “So… Um… You gonna go in there and… Do your thing?”

Michelle looked to her hand on the door, taking in a sharp breath. “Uh. Yeah. You wanna… come with?”

Ned shook his head. “No—no… I don’t… think I could do it.”

Her friend’s meaning wasn’t lost on her. Michelle knew that this would have an emotional toll on them both, even if Ned wasn’t the one with the magic trick. Seeing your best friend dead, become alive again, then dead again, was not something either of them wanted to experience. 

“You’ve got one minute.”

“I know.”

“Sixty seconds.”

“I know, Ned.”

Without wasting another precious moment, Michelle swung the door open, stepping into the room and quickly shutting it behind her. 

The room was deathly quiet—pardon the pun. Michelle braced her back against the door, taking a deep breath as she looked at the large pine casket in the middle of the room. Slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, she approached, running her hand over the smooth wood finish of the lid. Her hand paused, gripping the lid, trying to muster whatever it was she needed—bravery, strength, will—to open the top. 

And when she did, the body of Peter Parker was bathed in sunlight. Michelle found herself frozen as she stared down at him, the boy she had not seen since she was only fifteen, the boy she had kissed all those years ago on the Tower Bridge. 

The boy she had been in love with.

Great thought—almost too much—was taken as to where to touch him. The hand? Too impersonal. The lips? Much too forward. The nose? She didn’t think she could handle the thought of booping him to life. The cheek?

Ah. The cheek. 

Michelle swallowed, suddenly worried if he would be able to tell how sweaty her hands were. The Artist shook her head at the thought, steeling herself once more as she reached a cautious hand out to him, her eyes glued to her watch on her wrist. 

A crackle of popping electricity sprang from her finger when she touched his skin. 

_ 59… 58… 57…  _

“What the hell?!”

And in an instant, Peter’s eyes flew open, he sucked in a breath, now alive again, and leapt from his casket, sticking to the ceiling. There was a wild, terrified look in his eyes, his fist raised, ready to defend himself against his would-be attacker. 

“Peter!” Michelle whisper-yelled, heart thumping in her chest at the speed of his movements. 

That seemed enough to snap him out of it. The alive-again Peter jumped down from the ceiling, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin as a look of recognition crossed his features. “MJ?” He asked breathlessly. “Hey! How’s it going?”

“Uh, good.” Michelle couldn’t help but smile back. “You look great,” she continued, unable to stop herself from staring at the boy in front of her, and she marveled at how, even many years later, his grin would give her that same warmth. 

_ 47… 46… 45… _

The ticking of her watch yanked her back to reality.

“You, too—”

“—Do you know what’s going on right now?”

Peter chuckled. “You know, it’s funny. I had the weirdest dream that someone was trying to kill me.”

Michelle flinched. “It wasn’t a dream. Someone was… trying to kill you. Well,” she snorted, uncomfortable. “They succeeded… in… killing you.” His expression fell. “Sorry, I know that’s probably really weird to hear, but… I wasn’t sure how to sugar-coat it. So. Sorry. Again.”

“Oh.” Peter glanced around the room, eyes landing back on his casket that he had jumped from, face scrunched in a dizzying amount of confusion. “Oh. Cool? I guess. How…?”

“You only have a minute,” Michelle quickly added. “Less. About thirty-eight seconds.”

“Huh.” Peter’s brow furrowed. “What can I do in thirty-eight seconds?”

“Tell me who killed you so, like, justice can be served. Or whatever.”

“Oh, Em.”

Her heart leapt in her chest at the nickname. 

“That’s so great. Uh… Here’s the thing though.” He let out an awkward huff of laughter. “I don’t know who killed me…? I was just hanging out, you know, as Spidey does, and the lights flickered and I heart this gun go off—”

“—So you were shot?”

“Yes! But—” He flinched. “No? It wasn’t like a normal gun. And then… you touched my cheek.”

Michelle’s watch beeped. 

_ Twenty-seconds left. _

“Is my time up?” Peter asked quietly. He was only just getting used to being alive again. It was a weird, sad feeling.

“Uh, almost. I’m… sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I wish I could help… solve my murder.” He let out a faint, somber chuckle. 

Michelle breathed out a laugh. “Yeah.” She watched, filled with a mixture of sad longing and nostalgia, as he started to turn back, unable to stop herself from blurting, “You were my first kiss.”

Peter stopped, looking up at her with his easy smile. He was touched. “Yeah?”

Michelle nodded. 

“You were mine, too,” He replied, his bottom lip briefly catching between his teeth when an idea crossed his mind. “You wanna be my last kiss? First and last? Or is that weird?”

Somehow, the Arist’s heart climbed impossibly higher, her face starting to burn. “No. Not weird. It’s… symmetrical.” Her breath caught in her throat as he started to lean in, his eyes closing. Their lips were hanging on the air, centimeters apart. 

But Michelle’s lips went as far as they would go. She couldn’t will them to go any further. She couldn’t kill the boy she’d onced loved. 

Peter blinked up at her, feeling her hesitation, a frown tugging at his mouth as a string of rambles slipped out. “Hey, it’s okay… If you don’t wanna… you don’t… it was just a… just a thought…”

“No!” Michelle quickly replied. “No, I do. But… What if…” Her laugh was breathless. “What if you didn’t have to be dead?”

_ 3… 2… 1…  _

“Well, that would be cool.” Peter snorted.

Michelle’s smile fell, her expression gravely serious. “No one can know.” 

Peter nodded, lips pressing together. 

“Okay…” She looked around the room. “Can you… hide somewhere? Like stick to the ceiling or something? While I figure out how to get you out of here?” 

With another nod, his eyes began searching each corner of the viewing room. 

But as the minute passed, the weight of what she had just done fell onto her expression. She could never tell him that his own life was saved so that another’s could perish.

His own expression melted into one of concern. “You okay?”

She forced a tight smile. “Yeah! It’s just…” Her lungs seemed to lift themselves out of her body as her eyes met his. “It’s just good to see you again.”

Peter looked down bashfully. “You too, Em.”

“Okay. Just… Uh… Wait here. I’ll be back!” 

Tearing her gaze away from his, Michelle swung open the door, swiftly closing it behind her. Ned, still waiting outside the door for her, leaned perhaps a little too casually against the wall. “Well?” He asked. 

“Uh… He didn’t know.” Michelle pursed her lips, her nails digging into her palm. “Said he was shot by a weird gun, or something.”

“Damn…” Ned sighed, disappointment etched onto his features. “How was he?”

“He’s great—he was great.” 

Michelle hoped, wished, prayed that Ned could not see the sweat beading on her forehead, that he couldn’t see the slight jitter to her every move as she stepped away from the door. 

But her friend did not notice. He merely frowned, giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for doing that, MJ. I know it was probably really hard, but… at least you got to see him again?” 

The Artist tried to swallow her heart back into her chest. “Uh—yeah. Yeah. I did.”

His brow creased, pinching together in a look of concern and pity that made her stomach twist with guilt. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Michelle was not fine. 

The farthest thing from it, in fact. 

Because at this exact moment, she had a once-dead-now-alive-again high school sweetheart hiding somewhere in the viewing room of this funeral home with no plan as to how to get him out unseen. Ned, however, remained blissfully unaware of the true reason behind her shaken appearance, his voice gentle as he offered to drive on the way home. 

Michelle declined, insistent that she would be alright, that she was only processing what had happened. And while that wasn’t the entire truth, it was not a lie. Bringing the dead back to life, witnessing them walking, talking, breathing again—regardless of whether one decides to keep them alive or not—was no small feat. Any normal person—who had the power to wake the dead, of course—would think so, too.

But attending the burial had been even more difficult than Michelle had anticipated, watching as the pallbearers lowered an empty coffin into a grave, knowing that the alledged-deceased was still hiding on the ceiling of the viewing room. Michelle found that she could not cry, too overwhelmed with the relentless waves of guilt from the mourners’ chorus of sniffles crashing over her. She could not bring herself to look at Aunt May, no matter how hard she tried, worried that meeting the older woman’s eyes would cause everything to come spilling out of her in a clumsy slip-and-slide of horrifying secrets and nauseating guilt. 

Perhaps she should have taken Ned up on that offer to leave. 

As the burial ended, Aunt May pulled them both into a tight embrace, her words muffled under the sound of Michelle’s mind holding her at knifepoint, reminding her to keep calm. Her sickly expression seemed to come off as just the right amount of grief, judging by the aunt’s sad smile as she looked up at her and how Ned places a warm hand on her shoulder. 

It was darker, the sun melting into the horizon as they said their goodbyes, and with a final few hugs, Ned and Michelle were on their way again. Michelle stayed silent the entire drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, fingers flexing as Ned stared out the window, chiming in with the occasional bit of thinly-veiled small talk. 

Her friend’s smile was half-hearted, weighed down by the sadness he felt for such a loss, as she dropped him off at his apartment; and once again, the familiar, ever-present pang of guilt yanked at her heart. 

“See ya later,” Ned said, voice barely above a whisper as he stepped out of the car.

Michelle returned his expression as best she could. “See ya.” 

It pained her to know that she couldn’t tell her friend what she’d done, her heart clenching as he shut the car door and walked away. But as much as she wanted to tell him, she knew what a horrible idea that was. At least, for now. Or forever. She didn’t know. What she did know was that she needed a plan first, a way to deal with this mess she’d put herself in. 

And the first step was sneaking back into the funeral home and picking up something she’d left. 

That something being one alive-again Peter Parker. 

But she may have waited too long. 

Michelle was filled with a concoction of pure panic and frustration to find that the doors to the building—back, front, side, and all—were locked. No matter how many times she tried it, how many times she shook and kicked the doors, they would not budge, and she was instantly hit with the realization that Peter would have to spend the night there, her throat closing thinking of how he’d find the life she had traded his for—

And it was at the moment, she realized another thing. Even she didn’t know who’s life was taken. 

May was at the burial, so she had survived. 

Ned, too.

In fact, everyone she could think of was still there.

Who could it have been?

“MJ!” A sharp whisper from above cut through the rails in front of her snowballing train of thought. She startled, looking up, her heart punching her ribs at the sight of Peter sitting casually on the roof. 

“Peter!” Michelle hissed, waving dramatically, though still trying to remain hidden. “What are you doing up there?”

With a single leap, Peter jumped from his spot on the roof, landing on the patch of dirt in front of her. A little too close for comfort. 

Michelle took a step back. 

“Noticed they were locking up, so I snuck out through one of the windows.” Peter shrugged. “So I’ve just been waiting up there.”

“For how long?” 

“What time is it now?”

Michelle checked her watch. “Almost eight.”

“A little over an hour?” 

She winced. “Shit. Sorry I’m late.”

His smile lit a match under the butterflies in her stomach. “No problem.”

They stood there a moment, just looking at each other, the girl named Michelle and the boy named Peter, suddenly feeling as though they were both on that bridge again. 

But something tugged at Michelle’s gut; a reminder that it could not be the same as that beautiful day. They could never kiss as they had. They could never touch. As much as she wanted to reach out and take his hand in hers, the Artist was filled with unbridled anxiety as they walked back to her car, knowing that the faintest brush of their fingertips could kill him stone dead. 

Peter pouted—just as she thought he would—at being ordered to sit in the backseat. Of course, he didn’t quite understand the rules of his new life. Sitting up front put him in unnecessary danger. What if they both put their hands in the middle, and her pinky somehow touched his? 

It was not a risk Michelle was willing to take. 

“I can’t even hug you?” He asked from the back with a confused frown, leaning forward to rest his chin on the passenger seat in front of him. “What if you need a hug?”

Michelle barely looked over her shoulder. “I’m not a fan of hugs,” she said, her fingers slipping as she turned the keys in the ignition.

“Then you haven’t been hugged properly. A hug is like an emotional Heimlich.” In his excitement to explain the joys of hugging, Peter leaned forward more, forgetting to keep his distance. 

Her wary glance as she pulled onto the highway reminded him enough.

Peter sat back as he went on to explain. “See—it’s like your choking... on emotion, and—and someone comes and wraps their arms around you and gives you a squeeze. Then, that emotion and anxiety, all of your fear, comes shooting out of your mouth in a big wet wad and you can breathe again.”

Michelle’s nose wrinkled at the analogy. “Gross.”

Peter chuckled. 

“That’s okay for someone else to do though. If I’m actually choking. On food. Not emotion.” She willed her shoulders to relax. “But you can’t touch me.”

The corner of Peter’s lip twitched upward into a mischievous grin, one that she could feel burning into her, his eyes twinkling. “So a kiss is out of the question?”

It was lucky that Michelle still had some grip on the steering wheel. 

“Uh…”

“I’m teasing. I’m teasing.”

“And… I lost my train of thought.” Michelle chuckled nervously. 

Peter laughed with her, though he didn’t let the silence between them last. “So—uh…” He adjusted in the seat, bringing a leg underneath his other. “Why didn’t you touch me twice? It’s been what… Eleven years?” 

It felt as though he knew the answer to that already, but Michelle held her ground. “I have a good memory.”

“I know,” he replied. “Just… how long have you been thinking about this?”

“Like… thinking-thinking? It wasn’t premeditated, if that’s what you’re asking,” she answered. “I don’t even think I was seriously considering it until the exact moment I did it.” She cleared her throat. “Or, um— _ didn’t _ do it.”

Michelle could feel Peter staring at her, clearly overwhelmed, hearing the wheels in his head turning. 

“I mean, I guess I always knew you’d come back when I needed you the most,” Peter finally said after another beat. 

“Actually, that probably would have been before you were murdered, but yeah. I’d say this worked out.”

Her stomach flipped at his warm, good-natured laugh. “So… This… Power thing. How long have you had it?” 

Michelle tensed, but only because she wasn’t use to talking about her gift so openly with someone other than Ned. “Uh, I think it kinda… manifested when I was ten?”

“Wait, so we both have powers and I never knew? How’d I miss that?”

“I mean, I didn’t really go around telling people about it,” Michelle reasoned. “I also didn’t touch dead things around you. Or anyone. At all.”

Perfectly smooth.

Peter shrugged, not noticing her shifty glances. “Fair.” And then, his already warm gaze softened even more. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about it—if you don’t mind me asking?” He breathed out a chuckle. “I just know that Ned and May—and you—finding out just made things… easier? I don’t know. Like I had someone to talk to about it.”

Michelle considered that for a moment. It was nice, having Ned to talk to about her ability. But things were also fine before he knew. 

“People aren’t used to this sort of thing, you know?” She shrugged. “Like, sure, they see people with powers all the time, and they’ve definitely seen… a  _ lot _ , but this—” Michelle let out a weak huff. “—directly messing with life and death… It’ll bring up issues of morality. It’d just… It’d be a disaster.”

Peter offered no verbal response, though she could see him in the rearview mirror, nodding silently in understanding. Michelle knew that there was more to her fear of others finding out about her power, though she wasn’t sure how ready she was to express said thoughts aloud for the first time. 

“I don’t suppose I’d be able to go see May?” Peter asked after a moment, a hopefulness to his tone that made Michelle’s heart clench. “She’s not exactly a shut-in, but she won’t tell anyone. Probably.”

Michelle’s lips tugged into an apologetic frown. “I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “It’s probably best… for now… if you stay at my place.”

There was no sound from the backseat as Peter’s mind wrapped around what the Arist was saying, that he would not be able to see his aunt after his second time coming back from the dead. They had both fallen victim to Thanos’ snap, both of them losing five years, both of them having to move on from their old lives. But this was different. Neither one of them have ever had to live a life without the other. He was always there for her, and she was always there for him. 

Now, his Aunt May would be alone, her husband and nephew prematurely taken from her. 

But, even as Peter’s heart was dragged down by the anvil that was the knowledge that he couldn’t see his only living family member, he understood Michelle’s reasoning. It was the not-so-romantic notion of the secret identity, one that he knew more than enough about, one that was ripped away from him, all on someone else’s terms. And with a death so public, questions would no doubt be raised.

As much is it pained him to hide this secret, it did not feel like his to tell. 

Besides, he was hopeful that they could work something out in the end. Perhaps enough time would pass that he could venture out into the world again. 

The jostling of a speed bump yanked Peter back to reality, whipping his head around to look at the parking lot the car had pulled into. 

Michelle barely looked at him, her expression and tone lace with uncertainty. “We’re here…” 

The Artist kept her distance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she lead Peter up the apartment stairs, all the way to the fifth floor. A glance here. A glance there. All making sure that he was far enough away. 

It made him smile. 

The two were immediately greeted by the grumpy yowl of Michelle’s feline friend, one that implied imminent starvation in the near future if dry kibbles were not placed in a metal bowl in the next five minutes. 

“Hey, kitty!” Peter cooed at the gray tabby, crouching down and making kissing noises, encouraging the cat to come closer. 

He was only met with a wary hiss. 

“That’s Toulouse,” Michelle answered his unasked question.

“Toulouse?” Peter rose, expression crinkling in confusion. “Wasn’t that your cat’s name in high school?”

The corners of Michelle’s lips ticked upward into a bashful smile as she nodded at her furry friend. “This is him.”

Peter’s mouth parted in surprise. “Did he…?” 

A nod.

“Did you…?”

Another nod.

“And now he’s…?” 

And another. “Yup,” Michelle finally spoke. 

It was then that Peter fixed her with an almost sly grin. “You seem to do that a lot.”

“It’s just you guys.” She huffed out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of her neck. 

“Well, I guess we’ve got that in common. Huh, ‘Louse?”

Toulouse yowled again, his little face set into a scowl. 

“He doesn’t like nicknames.” Michelle joked, unable to bite back her smile as Peter breathed out his own. There was a moment, one where she felt her heart desperately trying to drag her to him. But she wouldn’t budge. She coughed. “I, uh… You must be tired from…”

Peter nodded eagerly, pressing his lips together to keep his own smile from growing. “Yeah. Yeah…” 

“I can take the couch if you want? Or you can take it—”

“—I’ll take it,” Peter said, a chuckle that bordered giddy and nervous, teetering dangerously, bubbling up out of him. “I’ll be fine there. It looks… comfy.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s a lot better than that coffin—” Michelle nearly choked on her own words, her eyes widening as she shook her head in embarrassment, realizing what she’d said. “Oh, God. Bad joke. Sorry.” 

But Peter only laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made the butterflies in her stomach rise to her chest. 

“It’s fine.” His voice was warm; a soft blanket on a chilled night, draped over her shoulders. “I missed those jokes.”

_ I missed you,  _ she wanted to say.

Michelle found herself lost for a moment, forgetting everything about where and who she was. For the nth time that evening, she cleared her throat. “I’ll… Go find you some sheets. Yeah.”

Peter’s lips pressed together, nodding as he watched her disappear into the apartment. And as he stood there, he thought about his new life, and his old life, feeling as if he was on the top of a skyscraper, the ground below covered beneath a layer of thick fog. He thought about his aunt, his friends, how much he already missed them. 

But most of all, as he watched the girl named Michelle return with a pile of blankets and sheets, the spare pillow in her hand dangerously close to falling, he could only think one thing. 

His smile returned, playing on the corner of his lips as he muttered under his breath, “I’d kiss you if it wouldn’t kill me…”

**Author's Note:**

> Well???? how we feeling??? WHAT is gonna happen??? WHAT is Ned gonna think? is Ned gonna find out??? is May gonna find out??
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT TIME ON KICKING BUCKETS


End file.
